[Intro]
I used to roast me a big, fine L
And watch a whole lotta basketball and “Seinfeld”
Aside from my fishscale clientele
There’s few things I know as well as basketball and “Seinfeld”

[Verse 1: Your Old Droog]
40 karat phrases for these parrots
Mimic the style you get embarrassed
Ditched the filthy habits, in a limousine
Every limb is seen covered in some fine fabrics
Still wreaking havoc, for them cats that would
Rob you for your pack back when Robert Pack was a Maverick
Who have chicks that give wavy wop?
It’s not trading cards when I say shorty gave me Topps
Teeth look like Chiclets
Big and white like Rik Smits
I’m at my Travis Best
The rest is average at best
That Len Bias in its purest form
Word is Bon Jovi, word to Sean
If you don’t recognize you’re his spawn
Catch a bigger bullet than Georghe Muresan
Ric Flair with the chops
And they thought he’s gon’ flop
Finally back on the top
I already made it to the finals playing with DeSagna Diop
Still serve you that Will Perdue
Bill Wennington, still spendin’ ’em
Smoking Newport shorts, call ’em Mugsy Bogues
So called thugs be doing vogues
Me and my team hit the road
With plenty Rhodes and mini moogs
Droogs mad they couldn’t see the big picture
I write my name on your face with a bogey that’s my signature
Still hungry, apple juice and baloney
Eat your food, fat or boney, cats from harlem, cats from coney
Those Matt Maloney stats are phony
I send a bullet at cha crony, then be done with that jabroni
I’m in holy matrimony with this bread
Deals we broker, y’all couldn’t be broker
Not bad breath control for a smoker
I’m Dirk, You more like Mehmet Okur
Peep the game we accruing
And you know I brought a crew in
I ain’t even with the arguing
Patrick, you win

[Bridge]
I used to roast me a big, fine L
And watch a whole lotta basketball and “Seinfeld”
Aside from my fishscale clientele
There’s few things I know as well as basketball and “Seinfeld”

[Verse 2: Your Old Droog]
Chris Kaman when they came in, I was Chamberlain
Burst through the door son I’m Kramerin’
Who wrote a gorgeous stanza?
It’s not you, it’s me like George Costanza
Folks appreciate the candor
Thin line between truth and slander
You more like Kenny Bania
The rap game should ban ya
Cantstandya, and ja delusions of grandeur
Green light from my manager
My joint smooth like how them pottery dudes handle clay
Old school like channel J
Your art, Vandelay
Weak like the ukraine, on that train fight
You wasn’t freaking Elaine right
Come through like Wayne Knight in plain sight
Option to stay the night
Cause I don’t build women up or gas ’em
Strictly help her reach an orgasm
With you it’s, fake, fake, fake, fake
Plus everybody loves The Drake
Left with class c or d, who’s it gonna be?
Tweedle Dum or Tweedle Dee
I said neither scorn free
So left, that the dude going left is corny to me
Drink Snapple all the time
If i don’t get that I’ll have a cranberry juice with two limes
What they do should be a crime
I mean what’s the deal with rappers who don’t rhyme?
Fucking hermit
Talk bout cars but like straight hair you ain’t got a permit
What are you driving at? Where are you driving at?
Don’t make me send a shot at you now, you ain’t surviving that
BBaow! Clean head shot
That sweater really get a red dot
Done seen every episode, how much more can we watch?
And motherfuck Danny Hoch
Your man nice? Well Droog nicer
Smooth as a butter shave, thinner precision than the slicer
Locked in the dungeon, till they unearthed me
Soaking up game, I been sponge worthy
I’m hip hop’s John Locke (who dat?)
You just hop on cock
My old rhymes still hittin’
And you’re like Keith Hernandez on “Seinfeld” you were never really spittin’